Hetavision Song Contest 2012
by Emelinee Baconinee Tortalinee
Summary: It's time for the annual Eurovision Song Contest, and at America's house, a party is starting as our favourite European nations get up to their usual antics, and maybe even find love in the course of the song contest.


AN: Okay, I know Eurovision was over a month ago now at least, but it took me days to write this after Eurovision, and then there was so much else that I wanted to upload that this got a little left behind. So, I hope you all enjoy this Eurovision-themed Hetalia oneshot, and please leave a review to tell me what you thought!

It was a strange night when the countries of Europe settled in to watch the grand final of the 2012 Eurovision Song Contest. To remain mostly impartial from the voting process they had gathered at America's house. Here they were unable to vote, and within the four walls of America's enormous domain, a party was starting. A huge flat screen television dominated one of the walls, and the entire house shook from the ear piercingly loud music blaring from the TV. The Song Contest was minutes from starting, and everywhere countries laughed and placed bets on their favourites. And, in one corner of the room, a furious young British man was storming over to the party's host.

"Will you bloody turn that down?" He yelled, voice cracking from the strain of having to be heard over the television. America only smiled at him, finding a dial on the wall and twisting until the volume of the television was acceptable.

"Sorry, dude, I didn't catch a word of that." It should have been impossible for Britain to get any angrier, but somehow he achieved it. His eyes blazed with a fire that scared even Russia, but America seemed immune to the fear Britain inspired. He'd grown up with the man after all, and knew he had no reason to fear Britain's wrath. So he merely watched, and waited for the storm to pass.

"How the hell can you stand that volume?" He demanded, and on the other side of the room, France rolled his eyes in exasperation. Time for more thinly veiled sexual tension.

"Don't be such a freaking party pooper, Britain." America whined, pouting unattractively to emphasize his point. Britain only scowled at him, not taken in by his wounded look.

"How the bloody hell can anyone be expected to party when they can't even hear themselves think?" It seemed like a fairly pertinent question, at least to Britain, but America thought otherwise.

"You're just jealous because I have a better sound system than you." He replied, and Britain laughed loudly with disbelief. Around the room other conversations began to die, faces showing a mix of interest and irritation as they watched the fight unfolding between the two men.

"You know, it's no wonder you're so stupid. I think my brain cells died just listening to that racket!" Britain declared, and a flash of hurt showed in America's eyes at the insult. Neither of them noticed the traditional Eurovision music beginning to play on the TV, and no one was brave enough to interrupt the fight and tell them the show had started.

Except for one man. Not even his old friend Spain dared to stop him as he reached his breaking point, and all eyes were on Romano as he strode over to the two bickering men as America struggled to retaliate.

"Don't you imbeciles know when to shut up? Some of us would actually like to watch this show, but we can't when you two are having your millionth fucking cat fight! So if you two are quite done bitching at each other, then go upstairs and fuck already, and let the rest of us watch this in peace!"

An awkward hush fell over the room and its occupants as Romano reached the end of his tirade, the only thing breaking the silence being Graham Norton's cheery voice on the TV announcing the first act of the evening. Britain, blushing hard now, stepped away from America and faced the screen, ignoring everyone as he focused all of his attention on his country's representative. Upon realizing Britain was first to sing, the fight was forgotten as everyone watched expectantly. The stage was dark except for one beam of the spotlight, and, when the countries saw who was illuminated by it, Estonia gasped.

"Engelbert Humperdinck is singing for you?" Estonia turned to Britain, who felt a wide smile stretching his face when he realized how impressed the younger nation was. It seemed that in Estonia he'd found a fan.

"My people love the Hump! Good choice, Britain." Estonia complimented him, and at the sound of his soft, friendly voice, the party atmosphere returned. The moving love song Britain had written became a gentle background noise as countries discussed the odds for their own performances. Russia was by far the favourite to win, although no one was really sure why. Of course, no one wanted to risk the quiet but deadly wrath of the great nation, and so most talk skirted the topic of the singing grandmothers.

"I picked them myself, you know." Russia was telling a terrified Iceland, who nodded mutely in understanding, all the while searching desperately for an escape route. Russia really was quite friendly when he was in a good mood, but the ease with which his attitude changed was enough to scare off even the bravest of nations.

Luckily, Iceland was saved when Feliciano bounded over to them with a familiar beaming grin.

"Hey, Russia, I can't wait to hear your song!" He announced, and Russia smiled down at him. Iceland rapidly nodded in agreement; too afraid to speak for fear that he might say the wrong thing. Feliciano, however, had apparently not considered this.

'They are very lovely ladies, but... they... sing a little out of tune." Feliciano hesitated slightly, anxious not to offend Russia. Iceland, who had been fiercely sending the naive Italian warning glances, now paled and cowered to a wisp, and darted away before any harm could come to him. Russia's smile had faded, and he drew himself up to his full, towering height to stare at the now somewhat fearful Italy.

'I do not think they sing out of tune. Are you saying I am wrong?" There was a hurt edge to Russia's voice that seemed to placate Feliciano, until he caught sight of Finland making hurried, throat-slitting gestures.

"I'm sorry, please don't kill me!" Feliciano ran to Germany's side with a frightened cry, cowering behind the German until he was convinced Russia wouldn't destroy him. He perked up when, on screen, Hungary's representative began to sing.

'Ooh, Miss Hungary, I _like_ this song!" Hungary smiled gratefully at the beaming Italian, before America appeared at her side and startled her.

"Yeah, way better than the first one! Man, what a dirge!" Across the room, Britain paused mid-sentence in his discussion with Spain, the full extent of his hurt visible in his bright eyes. Although America didn't fully understand the importance of the song to Britain, he knew a second fight with him so soon after the first was the last thing he wanted.

"Don't get me wrong, as far as dirges go, it's the best one! The lyrics are great, it's just a shame he couldn't get someone more well known." In an attempt to apologize to Britain, America continued talking to Hungary, knowing Britain was in no mood for a direct confrontation. He was a proud man, and wouldn't want anyone to know how deeply America had hurt him. As he spoke, America glimpsed out of the corner of his eyes Britain's soft smile, and he turned to face him properly as Britain walked nearer to him.

"I'll have you know Engelbert Humperdinck is a _legend_!" Britain told him sternly, and behind him Estonia nodded keenly. He was turning out to be quite the fanboy.

"Get behind the Hump!" The shout was quickly taken up by the other Europeans in the room, all of whom had experienced the five decades of Engelbert love. Hungary joined in somewhat reluctantly, losing her smile as her song was drowned out. As though reading her thoughts, Prussia found her with a wicked smirk on his face as he dragged an unwilling Austria with him.

"Yeah, no one gets behind the lame ass Hungary song! We're too awesome for you!" Prussia's voice hit an unpleasantly high pitch as he taunted Hungary, and Austria flashed her an apologetic smile when she looked questioningly at him. He simply rolled his eyes, as though that was enough to convey a lifetime of Prussia infuriating everyone with his antics.

"Woki mit deim popo!" Prussia cheered, fist punching the air triumphantly with each word. Austria tried unsuccessfully to pull away from him.

"Would you stop singing that? It's not even in the final." Austria snapped, and Prussia only leered at him suggestively, repeating the song lyric and shaking his own hips seductively. Hungary looked somewhat worried by his behaviour, and turned to Austria.

"Why _is_ he singing your song?" She asked him curiously, and he shook his head despairingly.

"It's a long story." He told her eventually, unwilling to go into the details. There was something in his voice that told Hungary it was indeed a long story, and one she'd probably be better off not knowing. So she only watched, waving playfully, as Prussia dragged Austria to some other corner of the room to do God knows what with him. Her song came to an end and several people cheered, until anxiety dominated everyone's thoughts when it was time for Russia. His ancient grannies came and went, and no one dared to repeat Feliciano's mistake when Russia sang their praises. The song itself was good for a laugh, and this reaction seemed enough to please Russia.

"Everybody dance!" Several people were doing as the song said, everywhere you looked. Spain was- rather unsuccessfully- trying to coax Romano into dancing with him, who was stubbornly refusing and calling Spain countless rude names in an attempt to throw him off. Spain saw through him easily though, recognizing his anger as shyness, and tried a different tactic. His hand found Romano's, gently tugging him closer and shocking the younger country. A hot blush scalded Romano's face and he lowered his eyes, fiercely willing no one to look their way.

"_Please_ dance with me, Romano." Spain pleaded, leaning in close to catch Romano's eye. It went against all of Romano's instincts to do any kind of dancing, but at the same time he couldn't bring himself to say no. He was torn between retaining his dignity and enjoying himself. He was only spared making a decision when there came several wolf whistles from the other side of the room, where a crowd had gathered in front of America's TV to watch Lithuania's performance. They all saw with wide eyes Lithuania's daring dance moves and impressive cartwheel, unbelieving that this was the same, why Lithuania they all knew. There were appreciative smiles scattered among the shocked faces, and America took the opportunity to squeeze past Sweden and Turkey to reach Britain.

"Damn, this Eurovision show is pretty good!" He told Britain, who only nodded and smiled. He hadn't won for some years now, but he never let that spoil the fun of the evening for him.

"Just thank God Canada isn't European. His music sucks!" America continued, and Britain looked a little offended on behalf of the poor nation.

"I rather like that Bieber kid." Britain defended him, and America fixed him with a wide-eyed stare of disbelief. Seeing this, and feeling an embarrassed blush begin to stain his cheeks, Britain scrambled to explain.

"He reminds me a little of you." At this, America just looked insulted, as though any possible resemblance to the popstar was the worst thing he could ever imagine. Behind him, a small young man cleared his throat, but no one noticed. He tried again, louder this time, but to no effect.

"I don't think you're like Justin Bieber." He spoke softly, and at this, at least, America looked startled.

'Dude, do you hear something? It's like a ghost... Oh my God, my house is haunted. This is so cool!" America rapidly switched from afraid and awestruck as he spoke, confusing Britain immensely.

"It's me, actually. Not a ghost." Of course this failed to convince America, who took Britain by the hand and hurried him away, eagerly telling him to call the Ghostbusters and ignoring all of Britain's futile attempts to convince him that they were fictional. And, left standing where the two men had just been, Canada only sighed and shook his head despairingly.

On the screen, meanwhile, all the focus was on Turkey. His song consisted of half a dozen men pretending to be a boat, whilst the lead singer went on about flying away on a ship. It was, truth be told, one of the strangest things ever seen on Eurovision, although France was insistent in telling everyone who'd listen to him that Turkey could _never_ top his performance from a few years ago, with cross-dressing men and a golf cart. Most people thought this needed to be seen to be believed, and eventually France dropped the subject completely.

By happy coincidence, France's song was soon after. It was a little dull, and overdone, and many agreed that Turkey's song was not only better, but much more entertaining. A disgusted glare in Turkey's direction was France's only input on the matter.

"Jeez, France, fixation on the shirtless guys, much?' Spain laughed after the seventh- or was it eighth? - close up on one of the dancers, and France tutted, not taken in by his teasing jibe.

"Oh, just because they're cuter than you-" The rest of France's retort was drowned out, both by Spain's booming laughter, and Poland raising the volume as Iceland's song started on TV.

"Oh, please! I don't need to be cute, I'm sexy! Hell, even Romano thinks I'm gorgeous! Isn't that right?" Spain looked expectantly at Romano, who blushed scarlet and muttered something obscene under his breath. His response was enough to tell Spain that he was right, and he looked triumphantly at France. The blond man scoffed at him, unconvinced.

"Of course _he_ thinks you're gorgeous; he's completely infatuated with you! Everyone else with sense knows you're nothing special to look at!" If Romano had been embarrassed before, he felt absolutely humiliated now. Spain glanced sideways at him, although Romano's attraction to him was clearly far from news to him. Spain looked ready to say more to France, but Romano quickly cut in before more could be said.

"Do the two of you ever shut up? Yes, France is obsessed with men taking their shirts off for him, now will you talk about something else?" His rage did little to mask his intense humiliation, and France cooed at him playfully.

"Ooh, young love is a touchy subject?" He guessed, and Romano had to fight to stop himself punching the stupid Frenchman in the face. He strode determinedly away, doing his best to ignore France's cackling laugh at his expense. The realization that his and Feliciano's song was next only made his mood worse. He was in no mood to hear his song when Spain had just seen France mocking him that way, but his problems didn't end there. On the television screen, a young dark haired woman appeared on stage, and several disapproving glances were sent Romano's way. The only amazed expression came from America, rather disappointingly.

"Wow, Amy Winehouse is back from the dead!" He exclaimed, and his earnest tone announced to the world that he was fully serious. It seemed a pointless gesture to correct America, but in Romano's furious state of mind, he saw no reason not to.

"That's not Amy Winehouse, you imbecile!" He spat, and America glanced questioningly at the others. They all nodded, some flashing him sympathetic smiles. Feliciano looked to be thinking along the same lines as him, looking confusedly at his brother.

"She looks exactly like her." He told Romano, and America nodded keenly, pointing to the screen. The woman did indeed look uncannily like the dead singer, and her body language on stage was enough to make even Britain begin to doubt that Amy Winehouse was really deceased.

"And she's trying very hard to be her." America continued, and Romano's eyes blazed with indignation.

"You're _both_ idiots!" He shouted, turning away from the screen and feeling immensely grateful when the song came to an end in time for Cyprus'. His relief was short lived though, when he caught sight of Prussia and Austria hidden in a shadowy corner of the massive room. Austria was facing the wall, wrists caught in Prussia's hands to stop him escaping as Prussia belted out Austria's Eurovision entry at the top of his lungs. He playfully bumped and ground his hips against Austria's in time to the lyrics, embarrassing the poor young man to no end. Austria was desperately trying to hide his own mostly unwilling arousal at Prussia's rough treatment of him, knowing it would only encourage him. He caught France's eyes; silently pleading for help, but France only laughed and shook his head, before turning away to talk to Iceland. Austria was left at Prussia's mercy, and before he even knew what was happening, a low moan slipped out of his mouth as Prussia released one of his wrists to slip his hand down Austria's thigh. Prussia only laughed when he heard the sound, yanking Austria around to look him in the eyes. There was a hungry gleam in his eyes that worried Austria immensely, but he had little time to react before Prussia was kissing him. It was a surprisingly soft kiss, almost shy, and it took all of Austria's self control not to melt at the young man's touch.

Elsewhere in the room, a much more violent kind of romance was occurring. Upon revealing that his song had been penned specifically for Romano, Spain had endured the fierce Italian's wrath for close to ten minutes now.

"Do you have any idea how pathetic that sounds?" Romano was screaming, and Spain chose not to confess how Feliciano had told him how much of their own song Romano had written with Spain in mind. He loved teasing the younger nation, but France had proved Romano's attraction to him to be a sore point.

"Are you even listening to a word I'm saying?" Romano demanded suddenly, and Spain realized he'd been staring intently at Romano for some minutes now.

"Of course. You were just asking me if I knew how pathetic I sounded." He replied, and Romano scowled up at him.

'I said that five minutes ago, you dumb bastard! Why would you bother writing a song for me if you don't even listen to me?" Spain knew Romano had a fair point, but he wasn't completely without fault either. Retaliating to Romano only worsened his mood, and the argument would end up lasting ten times longer. The Italian had one hell of a mouth on him, and Spain didn't want to endure any more than was necessary.

Romano was quiet now, looking expectantly at Spain for an answer. Spain sighed; half wishing he could have fallen for the more gentle of the two brothers.

"Romano, I _do_ listen to you. Sometimes it's just difficult keeping up with you." He half-lied, and whilst Romano was not completely satisfied- or convinced- by his answer, he said no more. Spain sensed that he was calmer now, and continued talking.

"Now, Romano, I'd like for you to listen to my song before deciding how pathetic it is." His request was spoken softly, but he knew Romano wouldn't refuse. Romano turned back to the screen as the song began, and at once he started to blush as he translated the Spanish lyrics. Most of the others in the room were a little rusty with their Spanish, and whilst Britain could understand the gist of it, only Romano was fluent in the language. Frequent sideways glances were sent towards Spain, at first sceptical but then increasingly unsure, as though he could hardly believe anyone, much less Spain, would write such a song for him. Spain only smiled at him, and, as the song came to an end, seemed to expect some kind of opinion on the song.

"Christ, that was even cheesier than Britain's song!" He spoke gruffly in an attempt to mask his embarrassed uncertainty, scowling unconvincingly at the older man, who merely laughed.

"You still liked it." Spain replied, and Romano spluttered in a mix of outrage and alarm, face flushed a dark red.

"I never said that I liked it!" He yelled, and his anger only amused Spain even more. He gently pulled Romano close to him, who fought only halfheartedly to pull away from him, and Spain looked ready to speak when Poland appeared next to him, startling the two.

"Man, Iceland's song is like, totally awesome, but no one's even listening to it. It's so unfair." He whined, and Spain smiled apologetically at him.

"Sorry, Poland. We'll listen to it now." Spain offered, and Poland sighed, flicking a loose strand of his blond hair out of his eyes as he began to speak with a regretful tone.

"It's too late now, you guys, like, totally missed it. Everyone's like, too busy flirting to listen to any of the songs." Poland's voice took on a mournful whine, and Romano tore free of Spain's loose embrace, mortified.

"We weren't flirting." He argued fiercely, and Poland smirked briefly at his harsh denial.

"I never said you guys were. But Prussia and Austria are, and France is trying to flirt with Iceland- and nobody even knows _why_- and, like, who the hell even tries to flirt through _Eurovision_?" The last part burst loudly out of Poland, and close by him, Finland's face went crimson with embarrassment. He'd obviously planned something, although a quick, wary glance towards Sweden told Finland that the target of his affections was none the wiser.

On the television screen, Germany's act started his performance. The song was a sweet one, and Germany blushed as all the women in the room- even Hungary- squealed and cooed at the sight of the young singer.

"He's so adorable!" Belgium seemed unable to resist pointing this out to the others, and even some of the men appeared to agree with this statement. France sidled up to Germany, a teasing smile on his face.

"Looks like Germany has a bit of a thing for the cute softies. Now who does that sound like...?" He teased, looking pointedly at Feliciano. The young Italian, however, seemed to misunderstand.

"Oh, Mr. Germany, it's not Poland or Lithuania, is it?" He guessed, and the two young men mentioned both gasped and looked highly insulted by the idea. Germany only shook his head, a glare in his eyes as he looked at France, who was clearly enjoying every second of his embarrassment. The teasing only stopped when Britain found Germany, wearing an impressed smile.

"Wow, Germany. That's a really good song. You have a pretty good chance this year." He commented, but Germany looked horrified by the prospect.

"Oh, God now. Do you have any idea how expensive it is to host the Eurovision Song Contest?" Germany snapped, leaving Britain looking somewhat offended. Of course, France couldn't resist the opportunity for another jab at his old rival.

"Of course he doesn't, he never wins!" He laughed, and Britain leapt at him with a murderous look in his eyes. Punches were thrown as Britain screamed himself hoarse going on about winning more times than anyone else, and France loudly retorted with the fact that it was no close to two decades since Britain's last victory. It was all the others could do to ignore them, still discussing Germany's entry.

"So... you, like, entered this song deliberately to lose?" Poland asked, trying to make sense of it. Germany nodded, and at once, Feliciano gasped.

"But Mr. Germany, your song is amazing!" He declared, and Germany opened his mouth to speak, but before he could-

"I AM CLOSE TO THE WATERLINE!"

"Dude, I love this song!" America yelled over the thunderously loud music, which he had just turned up as loud as he possibly could. He bounced and danced with wild abandon, much like the hyperactive twins on TV. Britain froze, jerking away from France with a horrified expression.

"Christ on a bicycle! I'd forgotten Jedward were competing again!" He groaned, wincing as the crowd on TV screamed and cheered with delight. Last year, Europe had adored the crazy Irish duo, and they'd even made it as far as _eighth_ place. And now they were back.

Poland wore a similar expression of utter horror, but his disgust was for another reason entirely.

"What did they do to their hair?" He wailed, and it was only then that Britain noticed how Poland had styled his blond waves into a miniature version of the iconic Jedward style. The poor man looked close to tears, and the other Europeans looked similarly saddened by the change of hairstyle. It occurred to Britain that perhaps changing the hair had been a crucial mistake. Perhaps now he stood a better chance of winning!

Alas, this was not to be. Soon the songs were over; Sweden's 'Euphoria' being a strong favourite amongst Europe, and then the points were being delivered after the interval act. For a while, Britain remained bottom with the Nordics, who exchanged glum looks at being last. Sweden quickly climbed to the top of the leader board, with Russia close behind. Sweden's calm expression began to falter the more Russia fell behind, regretting having such a good song if it meant Russia would destroy him.

"Don't look so worried, Sweden. Of course I will win, but second place is very good." Russia tried to reassure Sweden, who wasn't sure whether to feel offended or afraid. Finland stood squirming next to Sweden, who eventually noticed his discomfort.

"What's wrong, Finland?" He asked, and the young man looked up as his face flushed scarlet.

"Oh, um, nothing! Nothing's wrong! I'm just looking forward to my points being given out- not that they'll be exciting or anything, I'm sure it'll be really boring! You probably won't even want to see them, and- ooh, look, France is giving his points now! Let's watch!" As soon as Sweden turned to the screen, Finland darted away, legs shaking and body trembling with fear. Couldn't he ever have some control, instead of babbling like a fool? All he could do now was watch and wait for Sweden to react.

In the meantime, France had just insulted Britain in the worst way possible, and the offence was unforgivable. Britain wasn't the only one who thought the blow was too cruel, but nothing could be done to repair the damage done.

"_No_ bloody points? No points _at all_? You're supposed to be my _friend_ in this, for God's sake! How could you do this to me?" France backed away from Britain, determined not to feel guilty for the opinions of his people.

"You know I have no control over this! Maybe if you weren't such a black sheep, people would actually vote for you!" France retorted sharply, and a low hush fell over the watching crowd at the sound of France's favourite insult for Britain.

"Well, maybe if all you pansies weren't so hell bent on sticking to the euro, I wouldn't be such a black sheep!" Hurt looks were exchanged at Britain's comment; Greece's being the worst.

"Hey, my people want to drop the euro, too!" He announced with a defensive tone, and Turkey was quick to call him out on betraying the euro zone.

"Traitor!"

Things quickly grew out of hand as the voting process continued. Britain was left further and further behind, saved from last place by Estonia's six points. It was a little less than he'd expected, but any point given to his act deserved a celebration. God only knew when he'd get more.

Romano was lingering by Spain as he began to give out points, hoping against all reason that Spain would recognize how much his opinion of Italy's song mattered. He was left disappointed though, when Spain gave their song a total of one point. He struggled to erase the hurt from his expression, knowing Spain was looking at him, and then all the hurt from the evening exploded out of him in the fiercest rage he'd ever felt.

"Feliciano! We're not giving that stupid, son of a bitch tomato freak any points!" He bellowed, and Feliciano looked up at him in surprise.

"But his song was really good-"

"I said no points! He can't just give us one point and expect to still be our favourite!" Feliciano, sensing the hurt behind his brother's fury, knew not to argue.

"_He_ was your _favourite_?" Denmark blurted out, and Romano turned his fiery glare on him. The expression was enough to warn Denmark away, and no one spoke as the Italian representative delivered their country's points. As requested- or rather, ordered- no points went to Spain, but eight went to Germany. There was some mild surprise that they hadn't given the full twelve to Germany, but still no one dared to speak in the wake of Romano's fury.

It was only when Germany gave his points that someone felt the need to speak up.

"Germany, why did you only give us two points? Did I make you angry?" Feliciano practically wailed, and Germany looked away, his expression of guilt identical to Spain's. Both Italy brothers were deeply hurt now, and there was no regaining the cheerful party atmosphere, no matter how much America tried. The tense atmosphere only made Finland more anxious about the points he had yet to give. Unbeknownst to the other nations, Finland had actually voted for Sweden. Several times. Several _hundred_ times. Seven hundred and forty eight times, to be precise. Finland hoped that, in giving Sweden his twelve points, the man would understand at least a fraction of Finland's affection for him. Of course, he hadn't planned on being one of dozens of countries giving Sweden the coveted twelve points. His gesture would be rendered insignificant, which Finland couldn't bear, and so, surreptitiously, he pulled out his phone and began to dial.

The rest of the countries were still fully engrossed in the voting process, which was drawing to a close.

"Come on... I can't be stuck on seven points this year!" Britain pleaded, and Norway glared at him.

"At least you actually _have_ some points!" He replied, looking pointedly at his Nordic neighbours, all of whom had neglected to give any of their points to him. He paid no attention to Denmark's soft apology; still too insulted by his friends to acknowledge anything they said.

"Hey, Finland might give you some points now, you still have a chance to beat Britain at least!" Iceland piped up as Finland's representative appeared on stage. There were several snickers and stifled laughs at the man's appearance, and Finland smiled as he reappeared, phone hidden in the sleeve of his jacket. As he'd hoped, people relaxed and laughed at the sigh of his representative, and some of the tension in the room eased. Finland thanked his lucky stars that they'd had the costume within easy reach when he'd called. Now there was just the second half of his impulsive plan left. Everyone smiled when Finland's representative called Russia's grannies six of the "hottest, cutest, prettiest babes", the comment making Russia smile widely at Finland. He shyly returned the smile, too preoccupied by anxiety as his twelve points were decided. His heart was pounding, and he didn't expect the hot blush that seared his cheeks and neck when the points went to Sweden. Several knowing looks were exchanged; everyone aware at least of Finland's crush on Sweden. And, although he'd already received at least a dozen countries' "twelve points", Finland's gesture did not go unnoticed, and a moment later Finland forgot his embarrassment when Sweden gave him a brief kiss.

"Thank you." Sweden whispered as he pulled away, and Finland beamed, too stunned to say a word.

The show ended soon after, with only a few countries left to deliver their points. Britain was given five points by Ireland, leaving him in twenty-fifth place out of the twenty-six competitors. Norway had done even worse than Britain, and his shame at coming last was overshadowed only by his friends' betrayal, and he made sure to avoid them as talk began to dominate the party over the controversial results. Denmark, seeing how upset his friend had become, pushed his way past the countries celebrating their top ten positions, and pulled his friend into a tight hug. Norway squirmed to be free of his friend's embrace, but Denmark only hugged him tighter and started to speak softly in Norway's ear.

"Please don't be angry with me, Nor." Denmark whispered, and Norway lifted his head to glare up at the taller man.

"You didn't give me _any_ points. And you're supposed to be my friend." He replied bitterly, glare faltering as his voice trembled with the full extent of the hurt his friends had caused.

"Norway, you know things would be different if it was up to us. Do you really think we'd _choose_ not to give you any points?' Denmark asked him, and Norway lowered his eyes, not speaking. Denmark ducked his head to meet Norway's eyes, determined to get a response.

"Do you?" He persisted, and eventually Norway sighed, shaking his head and grudgingly returning his friend's embrace. He knew his friends cared deeply about him, but it was hard to remind himself of that after suffering such a humiliating defeat in Eurovision.

Meanwhile, ignoring the jubilant chatter of his friends, Britain slouched on America's wide sofa, head clutched mournfully in both hands. He'd worked so hard on his Eurovision song this year after Blue's success in 2011, but only _three_ countries had given him points this year. With a total of twelve points, Britain felt thoroughly humiliated.

"Dude, what's the problem?" America's voice was an unwelcome distraction from Britain's depressed thoughts, and Britain looked sideways at him angrily.

"What's the problem? Weren't you just watching?" He snapped tersely, and America rolled his eyes.

"So you lost some song contest. I don't see the big deal." America replied calmly, and his response only infuriated Britain, who turned to face the younger nation properly.

"Well, I wouldn't expect _you_ to understand, you're not European." Britain muttered, his voice harsh with his barely concealed anger. America scowled at him, hurt by his friend's attitude.

"Dude, I'm just trying to help! There's always next year!" Britain only laughed disbelievingly, shaking his head. He did honestly appreciate America's attempt to make him feel better, but he'd spent too many years trying to convince himself to believe it now.

"I never win, America. It's nice that you have hope, but it's never going to happen." Britain admitted, softening his voice when he sensed America's hurt at his harsh attitude. America smiled at him, surprising the older nation.

"That's not true! I heard you telling France you've won more times than anyone else!" Britain blushed at the reminder of his screaming match with France, and at the other end of the sofa, Hungary leaned closer and nodded eagerly at Britain.

"He's right, you've won loads of times." She agreed with a smile. Britain faltered as a second person tried to convince him, and he dropped his eyes sadly to the floor.

"That was a long time ago." He spoke finally, remembering with a pang how badly he'd fallen over the past two decades. He'd become an outcast in the eyes of Europe, and there was no regaining their favour, no matter how hard he tried. Whatever song he threw at them, they countered with their tight knit system of only giving points to their neighbours. And Britain wasn't blind. He knew Eurovision was just a cover for a much deeper level of dislike, and every year he fell further out of favour with them.

"Maybe I should just pull out." He mused to himself, startling America so much that he gaped at Britain with wide eyes.

"You can't pull out!" He gasped, and Britain smiled sadly.

"I don't see why not. I'm never going to win again, and every time I try, I only end up embarrassing myself. I'm sick of it." Britain's green eyes burned with a mix of indignation and bitter defeat. America, however, wasn't quite so ready to give up.

"I don't care." Britain looked up questioningly at him, seeing the fresh, hard determination in the younger man's eyes.

"I'm not letting you give up, dude. I know it's been a long time since you've last one, but that doesn't mean you'll never win again! I don't think it's embarrassing at all that you keep losing." This statement puzzled Britain, who knew that America fought hard to win everything.

"But-" Britain tried to speak, but America quickly interrupted him, moving closer to point out some of the other, still happily chatting countries.

"Hey, some of these guys are lucky to have won _once_. You shouldn't be embarrassed about losing so often. You should be proud that you still keep trying every year! No matter how badly you do, you go at it again and again, and I think that's amazing! I know you'll win again one day." America's voice was filled with conviction, and Britain looked up at him in surprise.

"You really think that?" He asked him, words spoken softly as though he could barely believe they were true. America grinned at him.

"Sure I do! And..." At this America hesitated, looking away from Britain as a soft blush touched his cheeks. When he recovered his nerve he glanced up again at Britain, shyly.

"If I was European, I'd have given your song this year _all _of my points." He finished, voice barely above a whisper as he watched anxiously for Britain's response. Britain was silent for a moment, all of his anger and embarrassment at losing fading as he thought over America's words. He leaned closer to the young man, whose breath caught in his throat at the sudden closeness. Britain's expression was unreadable, a mix of emotions in his brilliantly green eyes.

"You know, I wrote that song for you." Britain whispered finally, after several agonizing moments of silence. America's eyes widened behind his glasses, and the expression of shock could almost have been comical, had hit heart not been pounding with a sudden mix of worry and desire. The lyrics of Britain's song returned to the forefront of America's mind, where they'd lingered for most of the night after he'd first heard them. He'd wondered over what their significance might have been, but he hadn't even dared to hope that Britain had written them for him. He looked at Britain now with new, hopeful eyes, not speaking for shock that Britain felt this way. There was no time to wonder _how_ Britain had come to feel this way though, and America knew that he had to admit his own feelings before Britain closed himself off again, out of regret for being so open with his feelings. If he didn't act now, he'd lose Britain.

But there was nothing to be said; no words adequate enough to express his feelings. And so America did the only thing he could. He kissed Britain. It was only a light brush of his lips against Britain's, but it was more than enough to tell Britain the truth. When he pulled away, his green eyes had darkened with a desire that matched America's own, and their second kiss was much deeper. Their breaths were shallow and hurried as they kissed, Britain's fingers knotting in America's hair to drag him closer. America had one hand on Britain's leg, growing restless as his blood turned hot with desire and his heart ached for the man in his arms. A low moan slipped out between them, although neither were sure who the noise had come from. Neither cared though, focused only on the taste of each other's tongues exploring their mouths as their limbs tangled and they sank back onto the sofa. Hungary had to jump up to avoid being hit by the two, muttering under her breath about banning love songs from next year's Eurovision to stop everyone hooking up with each other.

"I love you." Britain murmured when he finally pulled away again, instantly regretting his words when America's eyes widened with surprise. Was it too early to admit that? But what else could you possibly say to someone you'd loved for centuries? His anxiety turned out to be unnecessary though, when America smiled shyly up at him.

"Really?" He breathed, and Britain smiled teasingly, relaxing in the younger man's arms as he returned to their familiar, friendly bickering routine.

"You're a naive, annoying little git. But I've always loved you." Britain replied, his soft smile only widening at the flicker of confusion in America's eyes. Then America returned the playful expression.

"Well, then, you're a moody, stuck up know it all." He replied, and although there was a flicker of hurt in Britain's eyes, America had to smile.

"But I love you, too." He finished softly, only pausing for a second to take in Britain's unsure expression before he pulled him into another clumsy kiss.

"Bloody Yank." Britain muttered as they kissed, but his lips were turned upwards in a smile, and Britain laughed.

"Limey prat." He retaliated, and Britain pulled away, a wounded look in his dark eyes.

"I thought Limey was just an insult for the English." He told America, who shrugged his shoulders.

"English, British... same thing, isn't it?" He asked, and Britain gasped. He sat upright in America's lap, ignoring America's soft moan in reaction to the movement, and began to explain.

"It is most definitely _not_ the same thing! England is one country. But I'm Britain; the United Kingdom." America looked as clueless as before, and Britain rolled his eyes. Didn't America remember anything?

"Britain is _four_ countries. England, Wales, Northern Ireland and Scotland." Britain explained, smiling when he saw the flicker of understanding beginning to show in America's eyes. Before he could continue though, there was a loud yell.

"I'm not British; I'm _Scottish_!" Yelled a fiery, redheaded young man, and America stifled a laugh, both at the interruption and at Britain's exasperated expression.

"Of course, Scotland's always believed himself to be his own nation." Britain spoke softly so as not to attract Scotland's attention, and America sat up properly to speak.

"So... he's a bit like me?" He guessed, not wanting to hurt Britain with memories of their war. Contrary to his fears, though, Britain only smiled.

"Almost." He leaned close to America, to whisper in his ear.

"He's not as gorgeous as you are." A hot blush darkened America's face and Britain smiled, continuing with his teasing.

"Plus, Canada's more likely to enter Eurovision before he does." America shuddered, before a grin broke onto his face.

"Dude, that reminds me! We've still got a ghost to catch!" He exclaimed, jumping off of the sofa and almost sending Britain flying in the process.

"I'm not a ghost, just-" The rest of the young man's sentence was drowned out as America barged past with an unwilling Britain, disrupting several conversations along the way and providing Finland with a decent distraction, who had been cornered by a very angry circle of nations who'd discovered his recent call history. Canada was left in a mess of angry and disgruntled Europeans, and he sighed loudly.

"Why do I even bother?"

AN: I'm sorry this ended up being so focused on USUK at the end; I never intended for it to go that way. This really features my 4 OTPs, as well as hints of Norway/Denmark. I really hope you enjoyed this, and I apologize if I got any Eurovision facts wrong. I also couldn't resist the Andy Murray quote- from Scotland- so I'm sorry if I've caused any offence to Scottish people. I really hope you all enjoyed reading this, and please review!


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